


Who We Choose to Follow

by icyshark



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-02-02 13:59:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12727923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icyshark/pseuds/icyshark
Summary: Dalinev is a woman of honor. Blackwall didn’t have to think twice about joining her cause, and Maker, he’s glad he’s here now.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all. I've been working on this fic for fucking ever and it's still not completely finished but I just wanted to put it at least part of it out there. I'm really proud of it, so please leave feedback and let me know what you think! The story is mostly canon with some alterations and embellishments, and I'll try to have a semi regular posting schedule. Thanks so much for reading!

After a few weeks of travel, Blackwall makes it back to the base of operations for the Inquisition, escorted by the woman they’re calling the Herald of Andraste. Blackwall isn't sure if he believes it or not. All he knows for sure is that Dalinev is the strangest woman he's ever met. Though, to be fair, everything feels a bit surreal after being on his own for so long. His lodging in Haven is simple, and he shares it with several of the smiths. He still isn’t used to living with other people, but perhaps his little cabin in the Hinterlands wasn’t so different. He’d much rather live in simplicity.

He settles in rather gracefully. Most days he’s content to stand beside his living quarters and listen to the sound of metal on metal, watching Commander Cullen’s soldiers spar in the distance. There's no wood shop here, unfortunately, so the forge will have to do. He’ll wait for the Herald to summon him to join her in the Hinterlands or wherever else she’s needed, but he supposes she’ll choose Cassandra as her warrior. She knows her better.

Maybe he’s imagined the Herald’s advances, but he can’t deny the feelings she makes him feel. At his old cabin, in front of the smithy; any time she speaks to him she sends him into a tizzy. He doesn’t know what to make of her.

By human or even elven standards, Dalinev is no stereotypical beauty, or a beauty at all, really. Her jawline is uneven, her chin is an odd shape that juts out unevenly, her pointed ears stick out far from her head, and her nose is large and drastically broken to the left of her face. In her daily life, she seems uncomfortable in her own body, like she isn't sure where to place herself or how to move. Blackwall wonders if he’s ever seen a woman so plain yet so bizarre all at once.

She’s strong, though. Blackwall has never seen anyone so quick with daggers, dispatching demons and mercenaries alike without a trace of her usual discoordination. The same grace she shows in battle manifests in her soul. Her heart is kind. Even as she is thrust into this overwhelming responsibility, a role she didn’t choose for herself, she rises to the occasion.

Blackwall could hear the admiration in Varric’s voice when he filled him in on the journey of the Inquisition so far. With the refugees in the Hinterlands, she was devoted to saving as many of them as she could. There was no personal benefit, she just held those crying children and gathered that ram meat to soothe their starving bellies because it was the right thing to do. They could have travelled to Val Royeaux immediately. No one would have thought twice if they’d just abandoned the refugees. But she didn’t, and as Blackwall has come to learn, she wouldn’t ever.

Dalinev is a woman of honor. Blackwall didn’t have to think twice about joining her cause, and Maker, he’s glad he’s here now.

His lie still eats him alive at night, sure, but at least he’s finally making a _real_ difference.

“Blackwall.”

Dalinev’s low voice interrupts his thoughts.

He smiles and bows to greet her. “My lady.”

“I was just wondering if you’d like to join me in scouting the Storm Coast,” she says, hands on her hips. “There’s a mercenary company I’ve promised to check out. We’ve also received word there may be some Grey Warden artifacts in the area,” she adds, wiggling her shoulders playfully.

Blackwall chuckles. “You drive a hard bargain, my lady. It would bring me great honor to accompany you.”

Dalinev smiles. “Good. I’ll grab everyone else and we’ll meet at the stables in a minute.”

“Who will be joining us?”

“Oh, I was thinking Dorian and Sera,” she says, rubbing the back of her neck. “If that’s alright with you.”

Blackwall shrugs. “Well, I can’t say I know either of them all that well, but I suppose scouting would be a fine way to become more familiar.”

“And hopefully we can get to know each other better too,” Dalinev says, almost shy.

Blackwall splutters. “I- Y-Yes, if it pleases you, my lady.”

“Good,” she replies, looking like she’d like to reach for him. He longs to reach for her too, if only just to take her hand in his and press a gentle kiss into her palm. Instead, she leaves him standing there, feeling like a damn love-struck fool.

He should banish the thought. Such a woman could never love a man like him. Never. 

* * *

“Run!” she cries, waving the three of them away as the dragon launches itself from the mountain side. They all know they have mere seconds before it attacks, and Dalinev isn’t running.

“My lady!” Blackwall protests, moving to join her at the trebuchet again.

“Blackwall, you mustn’t!” Dorian shouts, grabbing him by the arm. “Come, quickly!”

The mage drags him away, Sera running with them, just as a fiery strike from the dragon’s mouth obliterates the trebuchet. The three of them are knocked to the ground by the blast. Blackwall feels a sharp pain in his side, but he rises to his feet regardless, scanning the path to see any way around the massive, burning debris that bars him from Dalinev.

“No!” he roars, slicing a burning beam with his sword.

Sera smacks him on the arm. “Blackwall, enough! We’ve got to follow the others, yeah? We’ve got to get out!”

“I can’t leave her,” he cries, whirling around to grip Sera’s shoulders. Tears forming in his eyes blind him from the fear on Sera’s face. “We can’t just leave her here to die!”

“Stop being so selfish,” Dorian snaps, grabbing him once again and pulling him away from Sera. His voice sounds sad. “She told us to run. She’d want us to live.”

Swallowing his pride, Blackwall finally relents, following his companions back to Haven’s chantry. If anyone caught the tears in his eyes, he’d blame the fire. The three of them find the path Chancellor Roderick told the Commander about and pass through, just as Cullen is about to seal it off. Cullen’s got a look in his eye that Blackwall is sure mirrors his own.

Damn that woman. Damn her bravery, and damn him for loving her. 

* * *

They march their way through the snowy mountains, they set up camp, they pull the pieces back together, and they wait. They wait and wait and wait and Blackwall’s not sure if he can take it anymore when one of the scouting parties finally comes back with more than just chattering teeth.

“I have her, I have her, she’s here!”

Blackwall’s heart shoots into his throat and he springs to his feet. There, from the darkness, a flash of green. A dark mass of bodies appear from the storm, led by Cassandra. From the flurry, Commander Cullen emerges with Dalinev hanging limp in his arms like a doll. Like a corpse.

Senseless, Blackwall can barely breathe as he forces his way through the crowd forming to see her. He arrives at her side at the same time as Adan, who shoves him away.

“She needs medical attention immediately. Quickly now, Commander, get her to one of those cots,” Adan barks, pushing Blackwall again when he gets too close. Pain sears through his entire body, and not from the gash in his side courtesy of the archdemon. All he needs in that moment is to see her, to hold her, to know that she’s alright. He’d tortured himself for hours, convinced that she had died, only to have her return out of his reach.

The moment Cullen sets her down, he rushes to grab Blackwall’s elbow.

“She’s alive, she’s breathing,” he says as quickly as he can manage, out of breath as he is from carrying Dalinev in. “She’ll be alright.”

Blackwall nods, fighting tears. He reaches out and clutches Cullen’s sleeve so tightly he worries he’ll rip right through the fabric. If he tries to speak the only noise he’ll be able to make are sobs, so he just looks into Cullen’s eyes and hopes he’ll understand. A shock runs between them. Were the two men friends, or even friendly? Certainly not, but in this moment they stand together as two men that almost lost the most important person in their lives.

Cullen takes Blackwall’s arm and pats him on the shoulder. “Come on, Warden, let’s sit down somewhere and wait, yeah?”

Blackwall can’t think of anything he wants to do less, but he obliges the Commander, mostly because he doesn’t know what else to do. Maker, guide him.

* * *

Blackwall is distrustful of Skyhold when they first arrive. After everything that happened at Haven, he isn’t sure he can trust any structure to keep Dalinev safe, and that irrational thought keeps him on edge for weeks.

Her injuries are almost entirely healed by now, thanks to Adan. He may not be their healer for much longer with the influx of refugees, but he claimed he owed it to Dalinev to nurse her back to health personally in exchange for her saving his life in Haven.

Despite her good health, Blackwall is always loathe to watch Dalinev leave the relative safety of Skyhold. She’s gone now, scouting in the first few weeks of repairs to the hold, so Blackwall keeps himself occupied by assisting the foreman’s crew and working in his new woodshop. It’s hard work, but it keeps him from thinking too much about the newly appointed Inquisitor.

When she returns, Blackwall’s in the middle of supper with the Iron Bull and Varric. The minute her shadow stretches across the floor of the hall, Blackwall is on his feet. On his ascent, his knee slams into the bottom of the table, bumping Varric’s elbow to knock his tankard into his teeth and sending a bowl of soup flying into Bull’s crotch.

“Sweet Andraste, Blackwall!”

“Hey, watch the goods!”

Blackwall splutters, head flicking back and forth in panic from the carnage caused by his knee to Dalinev standing in the doorway, Sera, Dorian, and Cassandra fighting laughter behind her.

As if he could be any more flustered, Blackwall’s pulse jumps from panic into absolute mania when Dalinev slips her thin arms around him in an embrace. Now all of them are staring, either with malice or mirth, and his face feels hotter than the summer sun.

“It’s good to see you, Blackwall,” she says through a laugh, placing a soft kiss on his cheek.

“I-” he chokes, interrupted by Sera finally bursting into laughter. He clears his throat. “May I speak with you in private, tomorrow morning?”

A flicker of concern colors Dalinev’s face, but she lets it pass. “Okay,” she says simply. They pull apart with a long whistle from Bull.

“Damn,” he purrs, smirking. “That was so cute, I almost forgive you for dumping hot soup on my dick.”

Dalinev laughs. “I’m gonna go wash up. Enjoy the rest of your night, troublemakers.”

As she and her party scatter, Varric scoffs. “Troublemakers? I’m the one who’s lucky to have all of my teeth still.”

“Er, sorry,” Blackwall mumbles, hiding his face. “I need to leave.”

“That might be best,” Varric snarks, but Blackwall can tell he’s not really angry. All the same, he needs to disappear, so he escapes to his shop and hides his face until morning.

When Dalinev meets him on the battlements the next day, they stand there in silence for many minutes. He can’t look at her, so he sighs and scans the jagged horizon.

“I’m no good for you, my lady,” Blackwall manages finally, voice strained. “I- I’m not… A woman like you deserves better.”

The wind blowing over the battlements makes the few fair hairs loose of her ponytail dance around her face. She looks like a painting.

“I think I get to decide what I do or don’t deserve,” Dalinev says, crossing her arms. Her brows are drawn together but a light smile graces her lips.

 He can’t tell if she pities him or not.

“I like you, Blackwall,” she continues, her tone growing more serious. “I want to make this work.”

Blackwall shakes his head. When he finally looks at her, he wants to cry. “I pray you don’t come to regret this.”

She approaches him with slow, careful steps and takes his hands in hers.

“I won’t,” she whispers. She rises onto her toes and brushes her soft lips against his.

A kiss. Their first. He wants to push her away, tell her she’s wrong and that he’s done with her for her own good, but he’s so starved for her touch that he drops his hands and wraps them around her waist, pressing her body to his and kissing her deeper.

Blackwall breaks the kiss. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Dalinev says, feigning exasperation. “How many times do I have to say it, Blackwall? I want you.”

“And I’m not too old for you?”

She shakes her head, a twinkle of mischief in her eye. “I won’t tell my father if you don’t.”

“Not…” he hesitates, embarrassed. “You don’t want the Commander?”

Dalinev blinks in surprise, then laughs. “What, Cullen? What in the world would make you think I was interested in him?”

Blackwall shakes his head, trying to hide the flush in his cheeks. “I, I don’t know. He was the one who rescued you in the mountains, and I… it just seems like he, maybe, fancies you… or something.”

Dalinev smiles. “Maybe he does,” she says, and Blackwall feels his heart ache in his chest. “Let him. I don't care. I don’t like him, at least not like that.”

“Oh,” Blackwall replies, unsure of what else there is to say. Well, it was dreadful and awkward, but at least that issue is cleared up now.

She takes his cheeks in her hands, running her thin fingers through the coarse hairs of his beard. “You’re a fool,” she whispers, leaning in for another kiss.

Maker, doesn’t he know it. 

* * *

They’ve been scouting the Western Approach looking for Venatori for weeks now, finally making their way to the Forbidden Oasis to investigate the shards they found scattered across Thedas. Blackwall learns new things about himself all the time, and if there’s one thing this excursion has taught him so far, it’s that he bloody hates sand.

The only reprieve from the brutality of their surroundings is when night falls and the sweltering heat and angry, blazing sun are replaced by cool breezes and the calm moonlight. It’s peace, and it’s nice to be able to stop sweating for a while, but the sand seems inescapable. Blackwall wonders just how long they’ll be stuck out here before the Inquisitor decides it’s time to go home.

“This isn’t what you’re used to, is it?” Dalinev says, joining him where he’s perched on the edge of the small canyon.

Blackwall smiles, despite himself. “You’re not wrong, there, my lady. Much less sandy where I’m from.”

The Inquisitor nods, and the two of them lapse into silence, staring at the basin of the oasis below. Compared to the rest of this barren hellscape, it really is a marvelous place to make camp. The plants and water at least give them something to look at, and they can sneak down to the pool at night to wash up a bit. Maker knows they need it after wandering around in the blazing heat all day, up to their eyeballs in armor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Blackwall studies the Inquisitor. She is positively luminous, glowing in the moonlight, and she isn’t saying a word. He so rarely gets to see her like this, not rushing to talk to some nobleman or slashing her way through demons, just relaxing and existing for a moment. She catches his eye and smiles.

“I always think of home when I look at the moon,” she says, dipping her head back and peering into the night sky with fondness.

Blackwall can’t take his eyes off the smooth skin of her neck. If they were back at Skyhold, he’d plant a kiss there. “Is that so?”

She nods. “My name, roughly translated, means ‘child of the moon,’” she laughs, shaking her head and looking at her hand, the one with the mark. “When I was born, my mother took one look at my hair and knew that’s what I was.”

This is what the Inquisitor does. She has this way of making every interaction meaningful, of giving a gift to whomever it is that’s lucky enough to be listening to her. She’s a great conversationalist, but none of it is niceties or formalities. Dalinev isn’t kind and accommodating because it’s polite; she is honestly just that good. Blackwall betrays himself by adoring her, but how can he stop when she tells him she looks at the moon and thinks of home?

Blackwall isn’t sure of how to reply, and Dalinev seems to sense it.

“I just came over to sit with you and make sure you were alright.”

She what? “I beg your pardon, my lady? You came to check on me?”

Dalinev nods casually. “Yes. Dorian and Sera are both asleep. I think they hate the terrain just as much as we do,” she pauses, waiting for him to smile, and damn him, he does. “If you’d rather I leave you to your thoughts, I can do that too.”

Blackwall shakes his head. “No, No, I-” he stops midway through the thought. Maybe she should go away. If he keeps pushing her away, then the truth won’t hurt her. He tried to end things at Skyhold but all that did was make everything worse.

Maker, she’s been so wonderful, scouring the edge of the earth to find him Grey Warden artifacts that aren’t even his to claim. At least he doesn’t get the sick pleasure of feeling like he’s special. That is just who Dalinev is; she goes above and beyond to earn the loyalty of every single one of her companions, cherishing them as friends.

He’s failed her by letting this continue. The closer they become, with every kiss and tender touch, the dark pit in his heart grows deeper. He’s a liar wearing the name of a better man. He’s little more than a ghost.

“Alright, I’m turning in for tonight,” Dalinev says, patting his hand lightly with her own and rising to her feet. Her touch breaks him out of his trance. “Have a good night, Blackwall.”

“Sweet dreams, my lady,” he murmurs in response, admiring her as her slight figure slips into the warm light of the dying campfire.

He looks away, ashamed. What a demon he is. How can he look at her like that, think of her this way, when everything he is to her is fake? He loves her, Maker knows he does, but how can she love him if she doesn’t even know who he is?

These thoughts that torment him are nothing new, but it was different before. When it was just skinny, weak village people coming to him for training and hoping to turn their lives around, that was guilt he could handle. The lie was ever-present, hanging above his head like a blade, but it was manageable with the knowledge that those men and women would be able to defend themselves and their families, and even then it didn’t feel good. Now he’s bewitched an intelligent, confident, strong woman into loving him and he doesn’t know how to make her stop.

“Stop thinking so loud, you’re giving me a headache.”

Blackwall jolts at the sound of Dorian’s voice. “Dorian? The Inquisitor said you were asleep.”

Dorian produces a lengthy sigh. “I was, but as I said, your brooding woke me up.”

“Oh,” Blackwall responds, dejected. “I’m sorry.”

“Maker’s mercy, I was just joking. Don’t look so wounded, you’ll make me feel bad,” Dorian says, lowering himself to sit next to Blackwall on the outcropping. “Really, though. It worries me that I thought I’d find you sitting out here by yourself and then, when I came to check, you were.”

A swirl of sand slips off the edge of the rock at Dorian’s boot and twirls into the air, sparkling. Blackwall watches it and fights the urge to fling himself off this stupid rock and end it all.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, looking away.

“Are you really so foolish?”

The question shocks Blackwall so much that he has to look at Dorian. “What was that?”

“Can’t you see that she adores you? That she’d walk the earth for you?”

Blackwall is speechless. “I- I…”

Dorian stops him. “Yes, yes, I know, I’m sure whatever horrible thing you’re hiding is very very bad and all that, but for the Maker’s sake, man up!

Sitting there in shamed silence is the only option Blackwall has. Of course, if anyone were to see straight through him, it would be Dorian.

“That woman over there is one of the most awe-inspiring people I’ve ever met in my entire life, and I won’t just sit here while you waste her time and hurt her.”

The breath leaves Blackwall’s lungs. “Hurt her?”

Dorian scoffs. “What did you think you were doing? One moment it’s all ‘my lady’ and you’re looking at her like she put the sun in the sky, and the next you’re freezing up and pushing her away.”

He takes a moment to collect himself.

“Listen, Blackwall: I like you, and I respect you, but I’m tired of this. You can’t see how much this hurts her because she doesn’t show you, but for everyone else it is as clear as the beard on your face.”

“Everyone?” Blackwall repeats. If that’s the case, regret isn’t a strong enough word.

Dorian places a halting hand on the warden’s shoulder, his voice uncharacteristically tender. “Tell her how you feel. Whatever it is that’s stopping you, it doesn’t matter, I promise.”

Blackwall shakes his head and pushes Dorian away. “How can you say that? How can you say that when you don’t know?”

Something about that lights Dorian up. He rises to his feet, buzzing with anger. “Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you that you don’t know her like I do.”

In a whirl of sand, Dorian is gone, and Blackwall crumples on himself. Dorian is right, he is a fool. He watched Dalinev destroy red lyrium veins, clear Tevinter camps, attend parties and gather troops to help the Red Jennies; she was always traveling across Thedas for the sake of her friends, and it hadn’t occurred to him for one moment that she might have a unique relationship with any of them? It had been so long, maybe never, since Blackwall had anyone in his life that he cared about that much. Maybe he forgot what it was like to have friends.

First thing in the morning, he needs to apologize to Dorian. The man just came out to check on him, and Blackwall had to go and cock it all up and hurt his feelings. This is exactly what he was brooding about in the first place. All those years in solitude were a good idea after all. Blackwall just shouldn’t be around people. After another few minutes of sulking, he returns to his tent, his gaze lingering on the tent Dalinev shares with Dorian.

Blackwall is an absolute ass.  

* * *

Impossible as it seems, he feels even worse the next day. It takes all the strength Blackwall has inside of him to drag himself out of his bedroll, but he knows time is limited. The longer it takes for him to get kitted up, the hotter the day will get, and the only thing worse than walking around in full armor in the sweltering heat is trying to put that armor on in those conditions.

Dalinev, Sera, Dorian, and himself sit in a circle with other Inquisition agents, eating their breakfast quickly so they can head out before the worst of the heat catches them. Dalinev and Sera are laughing, something about the Jennies’ bees, but Dorian is uncharacteristically pensive. Blackwall clears his throat and speaks softly.

“Dorian, I want to-”

“No, don’t,” Dorian says with a sigh, setting his breakfast aside. “I was rude to you last night, and I’m sorry.”

Blackwall shakes his head. “No, really, I wasn’t thinking. What I said-”

“Oh please, let’s not,” Dorian interrupts again. “I’m dreadful with apologies, I’d rather we just move on, all forgiven.”

Blackwall ponders this for a moment, before he extends his hand. “Right, then?”

Dorian rolls his eyes, but he can’t hide the good-natured smirk on his face. “If you must,” he says, taking Blackwall’s hand and giving it a firm shake.

“Oy, what are you lads up to over there?” Sera says from across the fire. “We’ve got adventuring to do, you know. We don’t have all day for you to talk about beards and chest hair or… whatever men like.”

“I’ll have you know that I prefer a clean-shaven man,” Dorian replies, standing and brushing sand off his trousers. “But I agree, we’d best get started on the day.”

“That hurts, Dorian,” Blackwall jokes, using one hand to stroke his beard and placing the other dramatically over his heart. “Look, you’ve hurt my hairy chest’s feelings.”

“Ugh, stop!” Sera groans, pushing past them and heading down the sandy path to the oasis below. “Men,” she grumbles to herself.

Dalinev laughs and follows her, taking Blackwall’s hand as she passes. “Come on,” she says, turning to look at him.

Their eyes meet and her expression falters, as if she’s just realized what she’s done. She releases his hand as if it’s bit her and charges ahead to catch up with Sera. Blackwall can’t help but feel a bit wounded when Dorian nudges his side.

“Told you so,” he croons just low enough so that their companions won’t hear and follows the two women into the shade. Blackwall suppresses a groan and follows. Maker, but the day will be long. 

* * *

When they stumble into the cave behind the waterfall, even Blackwall can hear the eerie sound of whispers, high and discordant like broken bells.

“There’s something here,” Dalinev says, setting a hand on Dorian’s arm. “Look there, a veilfire brazier. Will you light it?”

“With pleasure, Inquisitor,” Dorian replies, and with a flourish of his hands green light floods the space. Dalinev retrieves a torch and sets it ablaze.

Blackwall grunts. “I still don’t like that stuff. Don’t trust it.”

“Creepy, innit?” Sera whispers back, wiggling her fingers at the back of his neck. He smacks her hand away and she laughs.

“Hush, I need to listen,” Dalinev chastises them, too enraptured by the ruins inside the cave to look back. Blackwall loves to look at her like that. She’s so eager, so hungry for knowledge that she’s prepared to wander into unknown ruins, unafraid of the ancient, magical fire that blazes so close to her skin.

The deeper they venture, the louder the whispering becomes.

“If you find the magic-y old rune recipe or whatever, will those nasty little things shut it already?” Sera grumbles, looking around.

Dalinev laughs. “I’m not sure. They seem louder than usual, don’t they?”

“I agree,” Dorian says. “We are here to investigate the shards you’ve been finding, Inquisitor. Perhaps we’ve found our source.”

“Did Solas make you bring some with you?” Sera asks, leaving Blackwall’s side to walk next to Dalinev.

Dalinev nods. “He believed we’d find the source here. Sounds like he was right.”

After a while, Dalinev finally comes across an Elvhen rune. Something always passes through her whenever she finds them. Her eyes glaze over and she wobbles on her feet a bit. The first rune recipe she found nearly knocked her off her feet; Blackwall had to catch her before she hit the ground.

Just as Dalinev and Dorian had predicted, the whispers are just as loud, if not louder than before, the further they venture into the cave until they come upon three different doors.

“By the Maker,” Blackwall breathes.

“They’re definitely magical,” Dorian says, approaching one of the doors hesitantly, running his hand down the stone.

“Looks like fire,” Sera adds, keeping her distance.

Dalinev steps back to examine the others. “You’re right, you two. The other doors look like spirit and frost magic.”

“What does it mean?” Blackwall asks, stroking his beard.

Dalinev joins them at the fiery door and sets her fingers on the seam between them. “Oh, look,” she gasps, smiling. “The shards are the key.”

“Creepy,” Sera says again, crossing her arms.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Dorian replies, smirking. “I’m sure it’s only filled with corpses and demons and lots and lots of magic.”

Sera growls and Blackwall and Dalinev laugh.

“So, fire door first then?” Dalinev asks the group.

Dorian shrugs. “Good as any, I suppose,” as if he isn’t quaking with excitement at the prospect of the fire magic beyond.

“Okay, it looks like the shards go here, so…” the Inquisitor mutters to herself, sliding the pieces into place with care. Blackwall watches her slender fingers work and tries not to picture anything lewd. As if she can feel it, Sera looks at him with the most horrible grin on her face.

“Whatcha thinking about, Warden?”

Blackwall clears his throat. “None of your business.”

“That’s what people say when they’re thinking of something dirty,” she presses, moving into his personal space. “But you never think about anything dirty, do you? Mr. ‘Honor and Sacrifice and Blah, Blah, Blah.’”

“I’m not so simple as that, Sera,” Blackwall huffs, eyeing her sharply. “Now stop pestering me and let the Inquisitor work.”

“I like the banter,” Dalinev says, surprising him by looking over her shoulder. That soft smile he loves is resting on her face. “Why do you think I take you three along?”

Dorian laughs. “Oh I don’t know, the combat expertise? My dashing good looks?”

Dalinev shakes her head. “Nope. I keep you around purely for your entertainment value.”

“Great, thanks,” Blackwall says with a genuine smile despite the sarcasm in his voice. His eyes meet hers, and her smile sweetens. Blackwall can’t help the flush that colors his cheeks and thanks Andraste that the light is low in the cavern.

Dalinev turns back to the door, reaching once more into her pack. When draws her hand back out empty, she turns around and frowns.

“We don’t have enough shards to unlock the door.”

“What!” Sera shouts, throwing her hands in the air. “We’ve been wandering around this bloody creepy cave for these stupid magic doors and we can’t even open them? Bollocks!”

Dorian tisks. “Please. This is an inconvenience but certainly not the end of the world.”

“This does mean we’ve travelled to this roasting, barren hellscape for essentially nothing,” Blackwall says, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. He fights the urge to groan.

“It’s not for nothing,” Dalinev protests, looking at them all. “Now we know what the shards do, right? Won’t it just be all the better when we collect enough to open the door?”

“No,” Dorian says flatly, running a hand through his slightly disheveled hair.

Dalinev frowns again. “Fine,” she says, somewhat defeated. “Let’s go back to Skyhold then.”

Blackwall feels a pang of guilt, but apologizing now would seem a bit forced, so he decides to just sit with the feeling for the moment.

The trek back to camp feels much longer than usual, stretched not only by the tension and collective misery of their party, but also the spiders, hyenas, and Venatori spellbinders trying to kill them, among other things. Mercifully, the giant that sometimes roamed the oasis is absent today.

By the time they get back, the sun is preparing to set and Blackwall’s shirt and trousers are soaked through with sweat. There’s no way he doesn’t smell positively ripe, so he tries to keep his distance from his party.

“Maker, I feel disgusting,” Dorian complains, wiping sweat from the back of his neck.

“Maybe we should all have a soak in the oasis tonight, yeah?” Sera suggests, plopping down onto the sand and lying flat on her back. “Get a nice scrub.”

Dorian laughs. “What, all together? Lewd, Sera, even for you.”

“No! I am not interested in seeing any of your bits,” Sera says, scrunching her nose in disgust. “Confident, aren’t you, you arse.”

“We can take turns,” Dalinev interjects not unkindly, settling down next to Sera. “That way nobody has to see anyone else’s ‘bits,’ alright?”

It is always little, insignificant moments like this that make his heart ache for her. Blackwall wants to lie next to her and run his fingers through her pale hair. He wants to draw her into his arms and pepper her hairline with kisses. A symphony could not describe the depth of his feeling.

“Well, me first, then,” Sera says, scrambling to her feet and spraying all of them with sand.

Dalinev shields her face with a shout, laughing in surprise.

“That means we’re starting supper without you,” she calls after Sera, who’s already halfway down the path.

“Whatever!” 

* * *

They finish their meal, the lingering tension from earlier dissolved by Sera singing horribly and loudly from the water below.

“She’ll draw every hyena in the desert over here,” Blackwall laughs.

“That is not how it works, Warden,” Dorian replies. “They’ll likely stay away now. Giants, on the other hand…”

Dalinev laughs. “Oh, you’re right, Dorian. I have heard that giants are attracted to the off-tune singing of elves.”

“Oy, I heard that,” Sera snaps, marching up to camp. “I’ll have you know that my singing is beautiful like a bird’s.”

“What bird, a dying crow?” Blackwall jokes back, squawking at her.

Sera kicks sand at him. “Go wash up, you filthy man.”

He chuckles. “I believe it’s Dalinev’s turn next.”

“You can take mine if you’d like,” Dalinev offers.

A flush colors Blackwall’s cheeks for some blasted reason, and he shakes his head. “I’ll wait my turn, like anyone else.”

“If you say so,” she says, standing to fetch something to dry herself with and some clean clothes from her tent. Blackwall can feel Dorian’s eyes on him, so he studies the fire intently, forced to track the Inquisitor’s movement in his peripheral for fear of ridicule.

His efforts are in vain.

“Bet you’d like to follow her down there, wouldn’t you, you dirty old man?” Sera whispers in his ear, her hair dripping cool water onto his shoulder.

He brushes her off and stands. “Oh, shut it, you. I’m waiting in my tent until she’s finished.”

“Better keep it quiet in there, tosser.”

Blackwall groans. “By the Maker, Sera, do you ever shut your mouth?”

Dorian laughs. “I’m not sure she knows how, Warden.”

Blackwall lies flat on his back and stares at the roof of his tent. He wasn’t thinking anything lewd, at least not until Sera started harassing him about it. Now he can’t stop picturing Dalinev’s smooth, pale skin, luminous in the moonlight, her small breasts shining with water. Maker damn him, he needs to stop this.

After a long while, Blackwall crawls out of his tent, clean clothes balled up in his fist. He sees Dorian sitting alone by the fire, nose in a book, and marches over.

“Dorian, has Dalinev come back yet?”

Dorian looks up as if he’s just snapped out of a reverie “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

“Inquisitor. Back. Bathing,” he summarizes, irritated now.

Dorian shrugs. “Couldn’t tell you.”

“Thanks,” Blackwall says sarcastically, deciding to head down to the oasis anyway. Certainly the Inquisitor wouldn’t spend that long down there, and Blackwall really does stink.

He slides down the sand at the bottom of the hill, looking around for signs of Dalinev’s presence. Since he sees no piles of clothing on the bank, it’s likely safe to assume that she’s finished now, so Blackwall starts to disrobe.

It’s sinful how good it feels to peel his soiled clothing from his skin and lower himself into the cool water. He takes the time to scrub his clothes, too.

After several minutes, he hears the water move behind him. He turns around as quickly and quietly as he can, scanning for threats in the moonlight with minimal success. When he finds nothing, he allows himself to relax his muscles and focus back on washing himself.

Again, he hears a noise, and this time he finds the source.

There, near the waterfall, Dalinev pours water over herself from her cupped hands, up to her waist in clear water. Her skin and hair looks just as Blackwall imagined it would, bathed in moonlight. She looks like a halla, glowing slightly, reflecting light onto the surface of the water that surrounds her.

Blackwall has to force himself to look away. Blood pounds in his ears and he can hardly breathe he’s so panicked. What in Andraste’s name should he do? He can’t get out or she’ll notice him, but he can’t just stay there either. It’s disgusting that he even watched her there in the first place. If she wants him to see her naked, it should be on her terms, when they’re alone. He shouldn’t be standing around here looking at her like some peeping tom.

Finally, he decides to just move his things to some other bank on the oasis and leave her to her space. It might be difficult to gather his things without being noticed, but it’s a better plan than leaving or just standing there. He has to take the risk.

As carefully as he can, he moves to grab what he needs, but he hears the water move again and freezes.

“Blackwall?”

It’s Dalinev, her voice low and surprised.

“My- My lady,” Blackwall stammers, turning to face her while also looking away to protect her privacy. “It was not my intention… I thought, I-”

“Come here,” she says, holding out her hand.

He hesitates to look at her. “What?”

She does not repeat herself, just holds her hand out further, beckoning him. Entranced, he crosses the water to join her, taking her hand with reverence.

“My lady, I don’t understand,” he breathes, brushing the side of her face with his free hand.

“Please, kiss me,” she whispers, drawing him closer to her. When their bodies touch, a shiver jolts down Blackwall’s spine, setting his senses alight.

He obliges, dipping his face and catching her mouth with his. She deepens the kiss immediately, threading her fingers through his hair and pulling him in close. Blackwall can’t stop the low moan that escapes him. He lifts her off her feet, holding her to his chest with one strong arm and lifting her with the other, hooked around her thigh.

“Blackwall,” she gasps into his mouth, moaning. He flinches. This is wrong. They shouldn’t be doing this now. It’s the wrong place, the wrong time. He can’t do this with her, not here, not until she knows the truth. If she ever does.

In an enormous feat of restraint, Blackwall pulls away. “Dali, we shouldn’t.”

Despite the cool water, her cheeks are flushed. “Why not?”

“I- It’s, I don’t-”

Closing her eyes, she rests her forehead on his. “Please,” she sighs. “Please, don’t do this.”

He sets her back down in the water, ashamed. “No, please, I only mean-”

“I know what you mean,” she interrupts, voice hard with hurt. “I’ll leave you to your bath.”

If he could, Blackwall would punch his own face, hard. He watches her wade quickly to the water, retrieving her clothes from where they were obscured under some plants and rocks. Balls.

She rushes back up to camp half-dressed, which of course makes Blackwall feel even worse. How selfish that he feels so guilty when she’s the one in the most pain. He sighs, crossing the water slowly, dreading his return to camp.

When he’s finally dressed, he runs into Dorian on the path down.

“You are an unparalleled ass.”

Blackwall sighs. “Yes, I know.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pressure builds and builds until Blackwall thinks he might burst with it. His secret has got to come out, and it's got to come out now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, sorry for the belated update. Life of a college student is rough ;_; kudos and comment if you enjoy!

He’s back at Skyhold now. It’s been weeks since they got back from the Oasis, and Dalinev is off burning bodies and killing dragons in Emprise du Lion. She brought Dorian and Sera, like always, but took The Iron Bull instead of Blackwall. There was no official rule, but it was unspoken that four was the ideal number for a scouting trip. That meant no matter how it killed him to let her wander into such danger, if she didn’t want him along, Blackwall couldn’t join them.

He tries to make his peace with it, despite the fact that they’ve been gone for so long already. There was no way he could even enjoy the time to relax, wound up as he was in worry that some harm would come to the Inquisitor in his absence.

Usually, he enjoys a week or two off. Sera can’t say the same, he knows; she loves the thrill of adventure. It’s boring around here, and even pranks can’t entertain her forever, or so she says. Blackwall thinks being stuck in Skyhold while the Inquisitor is out fills Sera with the same dread currently coiled tightly in his own gut, even if she’d never say it out loud.

Dorian would follow Dalinev straight into the Fade, if she asked him to. Blackwall has learned that now. He knows their relationship is beyond something he can understand. Dorian’s desire to keep the Inquisitor out of danger runs just as deep as Blackwall’s. He likes to tag along.

So maybe Dalinev brought the Iron Bull because he loves dragon slaying. Maybe that’s all it was. Blackwall could just be overthinking everything like he always does and that’s the end of it. That, or the Inquisitor is still hurt by what happened in the oasis that night.

Well, he’s not one to mope, at least not while just sitting around. He keeps busy with his woodworking, stops by to train and discuss troop movements with Commander Cullen, or has a drink in the tavern with Varric. If he stays busy, it’s harder to think about her. Or, at least that’s what he tells himself.

Finally, after three weeks away, the party returns. Of all people, it is Cole who comes to fetch him from his workshop.

“My friend, you must come quickly,” he says. “She is here, and she is hurt.”

Blackwall asks no questions, dropping his tools and breaking into a sprint for the gates of Skyhold. Maker, what’s happened? Tears form in the corner of his eyes almost reflexively; he’s been idle for so long, preparing for the worst, and now finally the badness is upon him.

He arrives in time to see Dalinev walking in, supported both by Bull’s strong arm and a makeshift crutch. Dorian rushes ahead of the party to meet Blackwall, placing a firm hand on his chest and holding him back.

“She’s fine, Blackwall,” Dorian says, trying to meet his eyes. “Took a nasty blow from a dragon’s tail. The medic said she’s got internal injuries, nothing a few days of rest and restorative magic can’t heal.”

“Maker,” is all Blackwall can manage, leaning heavily to rest his head on Dorian’s shoulder. He can sense Dorian’s discomfort, but the man sets a gentle hand on his shoulder regardless. “Cole came and found me. When he said she was hurt, I-”

Dorian tisks. “He shouldn’t have phrased it that way, I apologize.”

As they approach the stairs, Dalinev allows Bull to take her into his arms and carry her to the main hall. Even so far away, Blackwall can hear her hiss in pain.

“Where is he taking her?” Blackwall asks, drawing away from Dorian. “Why can’t I see her?”

Dorian shifts awkwardly. “She… well, let’s give her a moment to settle in again, shall we?”

Blackwall’s expression falls. “She doesn’t want to see me, does she?”

“No, actually,” Dorian responds. “No, she was quite miserable without you. Said she ‘felt stupid’ for what happened at the Forbidden Oasis and that she ‘overreacted at nothing.’”

“Are you sure you should be telling me all of this?” Blackwall says, peeking over Dorian’s shoulder at Bull reaching the top of the stairs. Dalinev looks so small in his arms.

“You know how she is. She said she didn’t care,” Dorian says. He claps Blackwall on the arm with a bit more force than necessary. “I still think you’re an idiot, though, and Maker help you if you keep doing this little dance with her.”

Blackwall grunts and brushes Dorian’s hand away. “What happened at the oasis was a miscommunication, that’s all.”

Dorian studies him with a disappointed look on his face. A beat passes.

“It was nice to see you,” he says, voice clipped and formal. The extravagant, Royale sea silk enchanter’s cloak Dalinev had made for him billows behind him as he walks away, as if the man wasn’t intimidating enough.

Blackwall sighs and looks away, only to catch Cullen leaning on the battlements, eyes trained on the entrance to the grand hall and a worried expression on his face. The commander catches Blackwall’s eye, offers him a stiff nod, and returns to his office.

Dalinev may deny it, but Blackwall knows what he saw. He saw the way Cullen cradled her when he brought her in from the storm, like the most precious thing he’d ever beheld was nearly lost to him. He heard the way Cullen stammered at her when they arrived to Skyhold, pledging to protect her more fiercely, as if he had any place doing so.

In a way, Blackwall almost feels as though the commander is stealing his own emotions from him. Cullen’s affections for the Inquisitor bother Blackwall more than they should and he knows it, but his gut twists every time he sees the two of them together. Jealousy is an ugly creature. 

* * *

 

Following Dorian’s gentle suggestion, Blackwall avoids visiting Dalinev’s quarters for as long as he can stand it before entering the castle proper. At the end of the hall, he sees an elven servant struggling with the door, a full tray of food for the Inquisitor balanced precariously on her knee. Blackwall arrives just in time to catch it.

“Whoa there!” he says, righting them both. “Careful, now.”

“I’m so sorry, ser,” the elf stammers, beet red. “Forgive my clumsiness.”

Blackwall waves the apology away. “Nonsense, it’s no harm done. No one’s angry with you,” he says, smiling. An idea strikes him. “May I take that for you?”

She looks confused. “But, this is for the Inquisitor, I can’t just-”

“I’ll bring it to her,” Blackwall says, reaching for the tray. “Go on now, it’s alright.”

“Thank you?” the servant responds, handing the food off to him. She looks over her shoulder several times in confusion as she shuffles back towards the kitchens.

Blackwall balances the tray on one hand, opening the door with a grin on his face. It saddens him that the servants are always so skittish, lingering evidence of past mistreatment, but it makes him feel a little better when he treats them like people.

Blackwall calms himself with deep breaths before climbing the stairs to Dalinev’s bedroom. He’s been inside only one other time, but that was only to fetch her when Sera got stuck in a cabinet trying to evade Josephine after dropping yet another bucket on the advisor’s head. He’s never been there on a personal call.

The first thing he notices is that she’s changed the windows. They were in the Ferelden style before, but now they are distinctly Dalish. Affection swells in his heart.

“Blackwall?” she croaks, shifting in her bed.

He faces her. “I… yes, my lady?”

Lightning strikes the air between them and she looks like she’s perched on the brink of a dozen different questions before she relaxes back into her pillows. “I’ve missed you.”

Blackwall brings the tray and rests it on her bedside table. “I’ve missed you, too,” he says, taking the hand she offers him. He frowns. “My lady, about the oasis-”

“Don’t,” she whispers, squeezing his hand. “Don’t even say it. It’s already forgotten.”

Blackwall drops his head, ashamed. She smiles at him, forgives him, even as his lie poisons them both. He is evil for loving her.

“When Cole told me you were injured, I-” he stops himself, the memory of his dread still too visceral to describe.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Dalinev sighs. “He’s just trying to help.”

Blackwall’s chest tightens with a feeling he cannot describe. “No, my lady, that’s not-” he pauses, gathering himself. When he speaks again, his voice is watery. “Please, don’t leave me here again. I can’t bear it.”

Dalinev’s eyes widen. This is a woman that faces horrors and sorrows unimaginable to most without batting an eye nearly every day, and yet here she sits, looking like she’s about to cry.

“Blackwall,” she breathes, releasing his hand. “You can’t ask me to do something like that.”

Blackwall kneels down to her level, clutching at her duvet since he dare not take her hand again. “Why?”

“Because every time I bring you out there I’m putting you in danger,” she blurts. He’s never seen such stark worry in her eyes. “Because we lose scouts out there every day and I couldn’t live with myself if you died because of me.”

A charged moment passes and Blackwall has to fight the surprised urge to laugh. That’s what this was about?

“Can’t you see that’s all I want?” Blackwall says, searching her eyes for understanding. This woman has bewitched him, body and soul.

“What?”

He sighs. “My lady, if I had it my way, I would spend my dying breath in battle next to you. That is my purpose now.” When she offers her hand again, he wraps it in both of his. “You saw me in the Hinterlands. I was alone. I had nothing and no one, and then you came into my life and I… I knew I was a part of something worth fighting for. I knew that _you_ were someone worth fighting for.”

Dalinev places her other hand on Blackwall’s rough cheek, smiling. “Blackwall, you’ll make me cry.”

“I don’t want you to cry,” he says, rising to sit on the edge of her bed. He takes the hand on his cheek and presses a soft kiss to Dalinev’s inner wrist. “I want you to be happy. I want- I want…”

“I know,” she breathes, drawing him closer. When their lips finally touch, it’s almost agonizing how much Blackwall has missed the contact. He presses into the kiss, threading his gloved fingers through her fine hair. Maker, it’s been so long since their bodies have been this close together. Dalinev whimpers and Blackwall immediately recoils.

“Have I hurt you?”

Dalinev’s cheeks flush pink. “I mean, I got crushed by a dragon yesterday, so when you lean on me like that it doesn’t _not_ hurt.”

Blackwall rights himself fully and buries his face in his hands. “Andraste, forgive me. I’m such a fool.”

Dalinev laughs. “Yes, you are,” she says, pulling one hand off of his face and stretching to look at him. “Oh, quit pouting, it’s not your fault. I pulled you in, if you recall.”

His hands slip away and he turns to look at her. Maker, nothing has ever been more beautiful. Blackwall loves her big, crooked nose and her bony cheeks. He loves her _for_ them.

The thought sends something piercing through Blackwall’s chest, and as he leans in for another kiss, he can tell Dalinev feels the change. She studies him. It’s on the tip of her tongue, searing her mind, but he knows she won’t ask. He can tell she’s given up hoping he’ll answer her. That hurts.

“Get some rest. You need your strength,” he mutters through a weak smile.

“And when I get my strength back?” she smiles. “Will you kiss me then?”

And more, he wants to say. “Whatever you wish, my lady.”

* * *

 

“Blackwall, dear, chin _up_ ,” Vivienne instructs him coolly, not looking up from the book in her hands.

Blackwall grumbles and straightens his posture, sighing deeply. Three Orlesian tailors circle him with measuring tape and darts of fabric, muttering quietly amongst themselves in Orlesian. He can only make out bits and pieces of what they’re saying, but he’s so uncomfortable he can’t really focus anyway.

“Madame de Fer, is this really-”

Vivienne snaps her fingers sharply. “I won’t explain it a second time, darling,” she says, exasperation just clear enough in her tone to inspire fear.

Every member of the Inquisition attending the ball at the Winter Palace is being fitted for a suit. The idea is to dress the Inquisitor and her party in something that looks nice but has good mobility if they need to get into a fight. The uniforms also disguise who will be joining the Inquisitor in potential combat and who is only there for the occasion, since all primary agents received invitations. Leliana’s scouts will be smuggling their regular armor in for when the Inquisitor and her personal guard leave the party to investigate the assassination plot, but should a brawl break out on the dancefloor for some Maker-forsaken reason, they all need to be prepared.

Blackwall has seen the sketches, and he’s got to admit that they’ll all be looking quite smart in their red Inquisition jackets. Vivienne had Duke Bastien’s personal tailors transported to Skyhold just for the fittings. Their work is undeniably fine, but it is obvious that the designs for the suits vex Vivienne. The patterns were proposed by Josephine and approved by her small council of diplomats, and Vivienne is not fond of them. Vermilion is not Vivienne’s shade.

Dalinev, on the other hand, is thrilled that she will not be forced to wear a gown, as is usually convention for women attending Orlesian events. Matching Inquisition suits give her a very convenient excuse to wear something more practical. It’s struggle enough for her, taking all these etiquette lessons with Vivienne and trying to work on her posture to be Imperial Court-worthy.  The last thing she needs is to somehow end up in a situation where she has to fight in a floor-length gown.

One of the tailors says something in Orlesian to Vivienne, and she smiles warmly.

“Merci, mon cher,” she says, and the three men leave Blackwall’s side and start to pack up.

He frowns. “They’re finished?” Already? Obviously they were good if Vivienne went through all the trouble of bringing them here, but Blackwall expected at least another half hour of being poked and prodded before being allowed to leave.

Vivienne nods, back to her book. “You were the last fitting. They’ll have the suits ready in two weeks, and then you’ll all be ready to dazzle the Winter Palace.”

Blackwall snorts. “Can’t recall the last time I ‘dazzled’ anyone, so that’ll be a treat.”

“I wouldn’t sell yourself so short, my dear,” Vivienne says, smiling suspiciously. She sets her book down and retrieves her wine glass from the small table next to her chaise, approaching Blackwall. “The social elite in Orlais can be… judgmental, at times, it’s true.”

Blackwall frowns as she starts to circle him. “An understatement, I’m sure.”

“However, if there’s one thing they love,” Vivienne continues as if she hadn’t heard him. “It’s exoticism. You, my dear, have it in spades.”

“Exoticism?” Blackwall chuffs, crossing his arms to escape her scrutiny. “Just what is exotic about _me_?”

“A decorated Grey Warden with a storied past? My darling, what isn’t?” She smiles, an expression that looks distinctly cat-like. Maker, have mercy. “From the Free Marches, but clearly well-traveled and familiar with Orlesian culture, known well enough for there to be stories connected to your name but mysterious enough to generate interest; you’re like a character in a silly romance novel. You wouldn’t happen to be long lost nobility, would you?”

Beads of sweat are forming at his temples. “I, no, I’m not,” he stutters. Whenever people ask too many questions, that thick, oppressive fear in his gut covers his whole body and shakes him to his core.

Vivienne sighs and stops in front of him, taking a lock of his hair between her delicate fingers. “Pity. Though, I do wonder: will the court will know about your victory in the Grand Tourney?”

Blackwall’s eyes widen. “How do you know about that?”

Something sharp flashes in Vivienne’s eyes before she feigns innocence. “I wasn’t aware it was a secret, my dear. I only broach the subject because I’m sure the lords and ladies of the Court would be deeply impressed by your skill.”

Blackwall only nods, too panicked to form words. Damn him, he should have never told Dalinev that story out loud. There are ears everywhere in this bloody hold. Winning the Grand Tourney is a Thom Rainier story, not a Blackwall story. Sharing it was a moment of vulnerability, of weakness, that he couldn’t afford, and yet he did it anyway. Bloody idiot.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of business to attend to,” Vivienne says breezily, releasing his hair and brushing past him, reclining in her chaise. “Don’t let me keep you.”

“Thank you, Madame de Fer,” Blackwall replies, bowing stiffly before hurrying to the door.

He bursts into the library and takes a deep breath, wiping the sweat from his brow. Maker preserve him, it was finally over. His relief is short lived. How much does Vivienne know? Does she suspect something? The woman is sharper than a wyvern’s tooth and Blackwall was stumbling around his lie like a fool in there, so there’s absolutely no possibility that she didn’t notice something was strange.

“Finished with Vivienne?” Dorian says, appearing beside him and interrupting Blackwall’s thoughts. “I think I had the same look on my face when I left my fitting. That woman terrifies me.” He sighs. “And I can’t _believe_ what they’re making us wear.”

Blackwall shrugs stiffly. “Not so bad. Vivienne or the suits.”

“I’m afraid I can’t agree,” Dorian responds, leaning on the railing and peering at Blackwall out of the corner of his eye. His playfulness falls away. “Is there something the matter?”

Blackwall looks at him then, and for the barest moment, he considers telling Dorian everything. He banishes the thought with the shake of his head.

“I’m just a bit nervous about the negotiations,” he says, joining Dorian on the railing.

Dorian tuts. “Nervous? Why?”

Blackwall adjusts his collar, feeling suddenly quite hot. He’s got to say something that sounds real. “I’m worried about Dalinev,” he finally blurts.

It takes him a moment to realize it isn’t even a lie. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dorian’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Worried about our dear Inquisitor?” he purrs, smiling. “How precious.”

“Oh, come off it,” Blackwall grumbles, nudging Dorian with his elbow. “It’s not like that.”

“Sure it isn’t,” Dorian responds. He sounds facetious, but a certain seriousness colors his tone as he continues. “No, I’m sorry, you’re right. I worry about her as well. We all do, I think.”

Blackwall nods. “Halamshiral won’t be kind to her. It makes my blood boil just thinking about how they’ll all look at her, what they’ll say about her- Maker, what they’ll say _to_ her,” he says, shaking his head. “She can hold her own in a fight; that bit I’m not concerned with. It’s the people.”

Dorian sighs deeply and nods in agreement. “With any luck, we’ll be cutting festivities short and she’ll only have to interact with the masks for a few scattered moments, but… yes, I understand. Some people wear nobility so poorly.”

Blackwall smiles. “Not like you.”

“Obviously,” Dorian smiles back, smoothing his hand over his hair. “I’m the very best of them.”

“You are,” Blackwall agrees. The tenderness in his voice embarrasses him, so he looks away when Dorian tries to meet his eyes. Still, Blackwall can see the glimmer of mischief in his expression. “But you shouldn’t speak about Madame de Fer that way,” he says, changing the subject. “She does a lot for the Inquisition.”

Dorian hums in agreement. “Perhaps I should save that sort of talk for Sera.”

Tension eases from Blackwall’s shoulders slightly and he finds himself smiling. “Right you are, my friend.”

Something flickers in Dorian’s expression when he looks at Blackwall, and Blackwall gets the distinct impression that it’s been a long time since anyone has called Dorian “friend.” They share a tense silence before Dorian clears his throat and slaps his hands on the railing.

“Well, on that note, I’m off to find the little scamp,” he says. “I have a grim feeling she’s planning something for the poor tailors’ temporary workshop, if she hasn’t tampered with it already.”

“Ah,” Blackwall nods his understanding. “Seems the logical place to look.”

Dorian pauses. He looks on the verge of saying something more, then decides against it and leaves Blackwall where he’s standing. Solas and Dorian share a polite hello as Dorian passes. Blackwall smirks. They both dislike each other because they think the other is arrogant. Irony is truly sweet.

Light stretches long through the window. Piss. He was meant to meet Cassandra and Bull to spar after his fitting. They’ve probably already started without him.

* * *

He’s just buttoning the collar of his Inquisition suit, ready to walk back into the party when Dalinev stops him.

“Wait,” she says, grabbing Blackwall’s shoulder. He, Dalinev, Dorian, and Sera have just fought their way through harlequins, Venatori, and demons to uncover Florianne’s assassination plot against Celene, and he’s bloody tired.

He sighs, weary. “What is it?”

“Come here,” she repeats, pulling him to her. He stands still while she licks her thumb and wipes what he supposes is dried blood from his cheek. His expression softens.

“Thank you, darling,” he says, running his hand over her hair and planting a small kiss on her forehead.

“Yes, yes, come along,” Dorian grumbles, stowing his coat and staff in the trunk Leliana left for them. “Let’s save the continent from debilitating political unrest, shall we?”

“Watch my bow!” Sera says, shoving him aside and reorganizing the trunk carefully. “It was a gift.”

From the Inquisitor, Blackwall knows. Sera had stars in her eyes when Dalinev gave it to her, showing her the special arrows and the enchantment Dagna helped her place on it. Sera’s used the weapon ever since. Blackwall catches Dalinev’s small smile, though she tries to hide it, and they’re finally ready to return to the party and save the Empress.

“What’s your plan, Inquisitor?” Dorian mutters softly as they reenter the palace proper, closing the servant’s door behind them. “Will you kill her yourself?”

Dalinev shakes her head as the four of them ascend the stairs quickly. “I’d like to avoid that if possible.”

“Why?” Sera asks. “It’s not as if she doesn’t deserve it. I know her little people.”

“I don’t disagree, but we need to consider how this will look,” Dalinev says. Her expression is grim and tight. “We will be instrumental in installing a ruler in Orlais, while acting as an unaffiliated political and military power. That looks bad already. I worry that killing Florianne so publicly will make the Inquisition look like violent imperialists.”

Dorian laughs. “Is that not what we are?”

The doors swing open with drama, and Blackwall zeroes in on Florianne instantly. She’s across the dance floor, and the four of them close in, much to the shock and indignation to the dancing couples on the floor. Instinctively, Blackwall reaches for his sword, but of course it is stowed away in the trunk past the servants’ door and not at his hip. Florianne catches the movement and smirks at him, her eyes looking feral.

“Inquisitor Lavellan and company,” she coos, her voice quiet but wild. “Come to kill me?”

Dalinev shakes her head. “No, Florianne, just to stop you.” Florianne takes a step forward, but Dalinev raises a hand to stop her. “Not so fast. The eyes of every noble in the Empire are upon you, your grace.”

Florianne’s smile falters.

“This is your party, after all,” Dalinev continues, stalking up the stairs to meet the Duchess at the top.

The Duchess’ voice waivers. “Who would not be delighted to speak with you, Inquisitor?”

Something about her tone tugs at Blackwall, and he moves to follow Dalinev. Dorian takes his hand before he can, holding him back with a shake of his head. Damn him, he’s right, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

“I seem to recall you saying, ‘all I needed was to keep you out of the ballroom long enough to strike,’” Dalinev shouts above the din.

It all unravels rather quickly from there. After she repeats a few more damning lines from their dance floor conversation, Dalinev orders Florianne arrested and the woman shrieks and wails as the guards drag her away. The crowd is in absolute uproar at the events unfolding in front of them, and Blackwall rushes to accompany Dalinev to speak with the Empress, the Duke, and Briala.

“Wait for me inside, please,” Dalinev says, pulling his hand away from the small of her back. “I’ve got this.”

He nods. “I know you do,” Blackwall replies with tenderness, letting her go.

When the double doors shut behind the four of them, Blackwall, Dorian, and Sera head for the window to eavesdrop and keep an eye on the Inquisitor.

“Wow,” Sera says, smiling big. “She’s really letting them have it, isn’t she?”

“Not to be perverse, but it’s quite thrilling to see the Inquisitor when she’s angry, don’t you agree?” Dorian adds mischievously.

Sera giggles. “That _is_ perverse, you freak.”

“Sweet Andraste, I’m getting a drink,” Blackwall says with a chuckle, leaving them both with a soft pat on the shoulder.

Some small piece of justice reveals itself when the night concludes and Empress Celene agrees to have Briala, now a Marquise, work with her and Duke Gaspard as their equal. The guests of the ball are in an absolute tizzy, which Sera uses to her advantage to pull some little pranks. Dorian is upset because the alcohol has run dry, and so decides to sulk and people watch until the Inquisitor says it’s time to go home. Blackwall shares the sentiment, but he promised his lady a dance.

They twirl in slow circles on the balcony, not really following the music playing inside. Dalinev rests her cheek on Blackwall’s chest.

“I’m glad you agreed to come with me,” she says softly. “I would have missed you.”

“And I, you,” he replies, resting his own cheek on the top of her head. “But you know that, my lady.”

He feels her smile. “Yes, I do.”

* * *

 

“Blackwall!”

He hears her cry for him as the floor crumbles beneath them, pitching them all into the great ravine below. So blind with fear is he that he doesn’t even think to look for something to grab hold of, something to save himself, just turns and dives over the edge after her.

Sera screams behind him, but he can’t hear what she says. All of his attention is focused on Dalinev’s form, so small and far away, hurtling towards the ground. If he can just reach her, just touch her before the end, then maybe…

What he doesn’t expect is for the very fabric of reality to tear open in a flash of green light. By the Maker, she’s used the Mark.

What happens next is vague and frightening, but when he comes back to himself, he’s standing in a knee-high pool of water next to Stroud. Dorian, Sera, and Hawke are all there too, but Blackwall can’t seem to find the Inquisitor. His head whips around in panic until he spots her, lighting a candle in front of a seated whisp.

He rushes as quickly as he can through the water to pull her into his arms. Behind them, Sera rattles off a variety of swear words while Dorian pats her back. Dalinev jolts before she realizes it’s Blackwall that’s holding her, then returns his embrace. Dalinev holds him so tightly he thinks she might never let go.

“We’re in the Fade,” she whispers, pain in her voice. “I didn’t know what else to do, we were falling, I’m sorry-”

“Don’t,” he says, holding her tighter. “We’re alive and we’re together; we can survive anything.”

They break apart and Sera is on him immediately, slapping his arm over and over.

“You stupid, idiot, arse, stupid… arse!” she curses, tears shining in her eyes. “Why’d you go and jump off? I thought,” she pauses and looks at Dorian. “We thought you… you idiot!”

Blackwall catches her hand before she can slap him again and her face crumples. She mutters one last “stupid” before she yanks her hand away.

“You know why, Sera.”

Sera sniffles and wipes her nose on her arm. “Yeah,” she acquiesces, glancing at Dalinev. “Same reason _I_ jumped off after.”

“Come on,” Dalinev says, stoicism returning to her expression. “We need to get out of this place.”

They wind their way through the raw Fade. Eventually, they come upon the spirit of the Divine, or at least a spirit that looks like her. Sera is white as a sheet, so Blackwall takes her hand. She squeezes his fingers tightly.

The Divine explains to them the nature of the creature they must face, a terrible demon that feeds on fear. Blackwall doesn’t know what to do. He lives in fear. How will he banish it, to keep the Nightmare from controlling him with it?

Dalinev finds her memories again, one by one, her party defending her from whisps as the thoughts shake through her, reverberating in the air around them all. Finally, she clutches her head and falls to her knees in pain. Blackwall rushes to her side before he too is struck by her memories.

Hawke and Stroud snap at each other, but Blackwall pays them no mind.

“Do you think that was truly the Divine?” he asks, expecting no answer.

“I have no idea,” Dorian replies thoughtfully, walking at Blackwall’s side. “If it’s a spirit it’s not acting like one. No demon would have been so helpful without asking something in return.”

Blackwall frowns. “And the Nightmare? From what she said, I don’t look forward to meeting it.” Dorian doesn’t answer.

They fight their way through a few more demons before a deep, rumbling voice echoes through the space.

_Ah, we have a visitor. Some foolish little girl comes to steal the fear I kindly lifted from her shoulders._

“Dalinev!” Blackwall calls as he strikes down another demon. She doesn’t turn to look at him.

 _You should have thanked me and left your fear where it lay, forgotten_. The voice, what Blackwall assumes is the Nightmare itself speaking, sounds amused. _You think the pain will make you stronger. What fool filled your mind with such drivel? The only one who grows stronger from your fears is me._

Demon blood splatters noisily in the water, but the clashing of metal doesn’t drown out the Nightmare’s voice.

_But you are a guest here in my home, so by all means, let me return what you have forgotten._

“What does it mean?” Sera cries, her voice sounding just short of desperate. “What does that mean?”

They continue fighting until all of the demons are vanquished. Blackwall takes a deep breath and flicks blood off the end of his sword. “I expected worse.”

Stroud shakes his head. “These were likely just servants of the true demon,” he says sensibly.

Blackwall sighs. “Pity.”

Wave after wave of demons attack them, but then they start changing, not looking the same as they usually do. Less twisted and more… human.

“Be ready, I don’t think those are friendly either!” Dorian shouts from behind Blackwall as figures drop from the sky.

It takes Blackwall a moment to recognize their shape.

They’re him. Only it’s not him, not as he is now. It’s the clean-shaven, smirking face of Thom Rainier that stares back at him. Thom Rainier is trying to kill Blackwall’s friends.

“What is this?” he says, dodging a swing of the demon self’s sword.

Sera is absolutely panicked, drawing and shooting faster than Blackwall has seen her before. “It’s nothing!”

They vanquish the strange demons and move on. It seems that none of them want to discuss what just happened, still too rattled to think clearly. Surely they weren’t all fighting him, were they? It must pertain to their individual fears, but he isn’t about to strike up that conversation.

 _Perhaps_ I _should be afraid_ , the Nightmare’s voice rumbles in the air around them. _Facing the most powerful members of the Inquisition_. It laughs, breathy and low. _Like Blackwall_.

Blackwall’s heart nearly stops beating in his chest, and he can feel his companions’ eyes on him. He keeps moving, following Dalinev as she leads them further into the Fade.

_Ah, there’s nothing like a Grey Warden, and you are nothing like a Grey Warden._

“I’ll show you a Warden’s strength, beast,” he says, but his voice is quiet and weak. Does he even have that strength in him?

Demons, regular ones, burst out of the floor, and Blackwall never thought he’d be happy to see them. Everyone is distracted, too busy fighting to ask any questions.

Again, the Nightmare calls.

 _Greetings, Dorian. It is Dorian, isn’t it? For a moment I mistook you for your father._ The demon laughs.

“Rather uncalled for.” Dorian’s voice is strained. “We really must shut that thing up.”

The Nightmare is relentless.

 _Sera, Sera, Sera_ , it begins.

Blackwall reflexively moves to walk in front of Sera, though the demon is nowhere to be seen. “No. Not her.”

_If you shoot an arrow at me, I’ll know where you are._

Sera’s lip quivers. “Out of my head, bitch-balls!” she shouts, raising both middle fingers at the sky. Her arms are shaking.

“We can’t listen to it, all of us,” Dalinev says. “This is what it wants.”

 _Inquisitor Lavellan, how humbled I am that you have joined me in my home_ , the Nightmare croons. Blackwall sees how Dalinev’s back tenses up. Still, she does not stop moving.

 _Is it because you were pushed out of your old one?_ It laughs. _Poor little Dalinev. Too clumsy, too_ ugly _, always in the way. Expendable enough to be sent off to the Conclave._

“I’ll kill the damn thing,” Blackwall growls, tightening his grip on his sword and shield. “With my bare hands, if I must.”

The Nightmare teases Stroud, blaming him for the downfall of the Wardens. It berates Hawke, calling him worthless and diminishing his accomplishments. Tells him that nothing he did mattered, and that he’s too weak to down Corypheus. His friends and family will die.

Blackwall feels ill. What a disgusting creature, reprehensible in its very purpose. Blackwall looks at his friends. Dorian looks like he’s trying desperately not to appear shaken, though he most certainly is. Blackwall doesn’t know the full story of the conflict between Dorian and his father, not really, but he knows enough. The Nightmare knows all. Sera looks positively horrified, but she avoids his eyes. He sees her shoulders shaking and wants nothing more than to hold her in his arms, but he dare not touch her.

Dalinev charges ahead, seemingly unaffected. He wants to scream at anyone who ever said a nasty thing to her. How dare anyone call her ugly? Expendable? She is the most incredible person Blackwall has ever met. No one in the world can do what she does, be who she is. No one can be more kind and thoughtful, more brave and determined. She has to know how special she is.

In the end, Hawke decides to stay behind and face the Nightmare demon alone, giving the rest of them time to escape. Dalinev takes Hawke’s hand, kisses him gently on the cheek, then heads for the rift without looking back. Blackwall runs to catch up to her before they enter the rift.

“Why Hawke?” he questions. “Varric…”

“I know,” Dalinev says, closing her eyes. “But we _need_ Stroud to help rebuild the Wardens, and Hawke wanted to stay. He wanted to help.”

Blackwall drops it after that, and the five of them leap back through the rift. Dalinev saves the Wardens, just as she said she would, and tasks Stroud with leading them back to the right path.

When asked for his opinion, Blackwall agrees. What else can he say? The real Blackwall would want the Wardens to carry on and grow from these failures. He was a good man that believed in the cause. Now this Blackwall needs to continue that legacy, or it has all been for naught.

* * *

 

Their first time back in the field after Adamant, Dalinev takes him out alone to find the badge. Blackwall’s badge. The real Blackwall.

He needs it. It’s been lost for too long. What happened at Adamant showed him that the real Blackwall’s legacy needs to be protected, because soon, he will tell her. There can be nothing left of the man that was.

Dorian is right. Blackwall needs to tell her about Thom Rainier, and it needs to be in the very near future, so he resolves to do it when they return to Skyhold. No reason to have her be devastated anywhere other than the comfort of her home, right?

Blackwall groans quietly.

“Hanging in back there?” Dalinev says with a laugh, shuffling down the slick path carefully.

“Does it ever stop raining out here?”

Dalinev shakes her head. “I don’t think so. Maybe that’s why they call it the Storm Coast?”

“Oh, leave me alone,” he laughs, catching up to her when they reach even ground. He gets the urge to put his arm around her shoulders and pull her in close, and for once, he follows through.

She rolls into his touch and leans her head on his shoulder, smiling. “Aren’t you sweet? I’m glad you’re in a good mood.”

Blackwall fights the urge to frown. She’s right: he is in a good mood. Why not enjoy it while it lasts?

So they do. They chase each other around camp throwing pebbles, slipping on the rocky beach and laughing when they both tumble to the ground, kissing each other through the rain and sea spray. On their way home, they race each other, their mounts thundering far ahead the rest of the camp. Maker, she makes him feel young again.

Blackwall will never catch up to her when she’s on her Wild Hart, Adahleni, but that’s not really the point. Just to witness her fine hair catching the sunlight when it finally breaks through the clouds, to hear the musical peal of her laughter rolling off of the hills while they ride; just that is enough to make his heart soar.

He soaks it up, and when they return to Skyhold all he wants is a good, stiff drink. As much fun as he had racing Dalinev in the Storm Coast, it was brutal on his old joints, and spending the entire time sopping wet wasn’t much help.

When he finds his way back to the shop, one of Leliana’s scouts is there waiting for him.

“Ah, Ser Blackwall,” she says, spine rigid and alert. “Sister Leliana thought you might want to see this.”

She holds a report out to him and his stomach plummets to the floor. There’s only one thing this could be. Leliana knows. Of course, she knows. He hopes the scout doesn’t notice the tension ratcheting up his arm as he reaches for the paper, but he knows she does. She wouldn’t be one of Leliana’s if she didn’t.

Blackwall thanks the scout and she leaves him. The sun is just starting to set, so he starts a fire. Anything to avoid reading the damn letter. It burns in his hand. He crumples it tight in his fist and throws the ball at the wall in a rage. The anger consumes him and he rises to his feet, shoving the tools off of his work table with a shout.

He gulps in heaving breaths. Damn this. Near sobs wrack him and it feels as if the Maker has come to take him to the beyond by choking him with sadness. The feeling fades, however, and he shuffles over to pick up the crumpled report and flatten it enough to read.

It’s decided for him right then that he needs to leave. 

* * *

 

Dalinev comes to him in the evening.

He’s staring at the fire in his woodshop. The specter of Thom Rainier is just behind him, hovering over him like a ghost. When Dalinev silently approaches his side, his heart is gripped in terror that Thom is there. How separate he feels from himself.

“Want a drink?” he says, uncrossing his arms despite the lingering fear rattling in his chest. “I’ve a hankering for company.” Yes, if only to banish the demon that haunts him.

They walk to the tavern entrenched in a tense silence, and it follows them through the door. Cabot hands them their drinks, and Dalinev thanks him for them both, since Blackwall seems incapable of speech. But she doesn’t push him. She’s patient, and in that moment, Blackwall loathes himself.

He sighs.

“You seem troubled,” Dalinev finally says, finding his eyes. “What’s on your mind?”

“It’s nothing,” he responds automatically, so accustomed now to hiding himself from others. How he wishes he could be vulnerable with her.

Dalinev frowns. “You know I’m here for you,” she says softly, laying her hand on his shoulder.

He closes his eyes. “I was thinking about going to the ruin and finding the badge.” His eyebrows draw together and he opens his eyes to look at her. “Everything seemed clear then, like I could do anything with you at my side.”

Blackwall pauses. Tension is tied tight around his lungs like a noose. “‘Anything.’ That’s a hard word, you know? Means a lot.”

Dalinev studies him then. She looks at him like she’s seeing him for the first time, drinking in every detail. He wants to look away, to hide himself, but for once he looks back unafraid. There’s something soft in her eyes. If he could picture what his own face looked like every time he saw Dalinev, he imagines the expression would be much the same.

“Let’s get out of here,” she murmurs, taking his hand. They haven’t even touched their drinks, but Blackwall would follow her anywhere.

They end up in his loft above the woodshop. The instant they’re up the stairs, her mouth is on his, hungry like she’s never been before. Blackwall wants to do everything to her, wants to undress her slow and worship her all night, but he stops himself.

“Wait,” he says, breaking the kiss. “You need to know I’m not worthy of you. There’s… no future for us, with me as a Warden.” The lie burns in his throat like bile. Maker damn his cowardice.

“So be here with me now,” she whispers. He’s never seen her like this before. “Be with me in this moment and damn the rest.”

He feels a weight leave him. All he can see is her, her pale hair as luminous in the moonlight as it was that night at the oasis.

“Then, for now,” he breathes, drawing her closer. “Let there be nothing else. No one else,” he says, feeling the phantom of Thom Rainier fade away into the darkness. “Just you and me.”

They shuffle backwards until Dalinev’s legs hit the wrapped hay bales Blackwall uses for a mattress, both of them falling until she’s on her back with Blackwall on top of her. On any other night, he’d be fretting that it wasn’t enough, that she deserved something more comfortable or expensive, but he made a promise. Nothing else, he said, and he will be good on his word.

He kisses her deeply then. Finally, he can lavish in this feeling for as long as he wants. Finally, there is time to experience her, _all_ of her, fully. Blackwall breaks the kiss to move to her neck, sprinkling kisses on the soft skin there. Dalinev sighs and clings to him tighter, rolling her hips into his.

Her desire is palpable, and as much as Blackwall would like to take her here and now, he knows going slow will be much better.

So Blackwall gets his wish. Garment by garment, her clothes come off slowly. He savors every inch of skin revealed to him, taking one pink nipple into his mouth and pulling her close from the arch of her back. Dalinev’s eyes roll back and she gasps, tugging roughly on his jerkin. She looks at him, and her eyes say all they need to.

Together, they work until Blackwall is as bare as she is. Her eyes wander over his body, and she spends a long time running her fingers through his chest hair, over the many scars left over from a different life, and over the hard planes of muscle built up over years and years of fighting, softer now at his age.

“Kiss me,” she commands in a whisper, and Blackwall gladly obliges. Her lips are soft and warm just like the rest of her. Their hips grind together and he can feel how wet she is. His breath catches in his throat and he shudders.

“Maker,” he curses, gritting his teeth from the pleasure of it.

An urgent noise leaves Dalinev’s mouth, and her eyes meet his. “Blackwall, please, _please_ …”

“Can I kiss you down there?” he asks, surprising even himself at the request. He’s never done such a thing before, but he feels the longing deep in his chest. He wants to kiss her everywhere. He wants to taste her.

“Anything,” she replies, pink-faced and breathless.

Blackwall leaves a trail of kisses down her stomach on his way, then dips his head to kiss her vulva. She gasps, rocking her hips. He kisses her labia like he’d kiss her lips, sucking and biting lightly every time he hears her moan in delight. While he works his tongue inside of her, his rough hands roam over her body, lifting her slim legs to rest over his shoulders.

Dalinev writhes above him. Blackwall flicks his tongue over her clitoris, and she whines low in her throat. She grabs one of his hands with surprising strength, so he stops to look at her.

“Stop, please,” she says, tugging him forward. He removes himself from the tangle of her legs, wiping the wetness from his beard on his way to meet her. Dalinev pulls him in for a kiss, and he can feel a small smile on her lips. When he pulls away, tears are shining in her eyes. She is all raw emotion, pure energy.

“I want you,” she whispers. Her hand trails down his stomach until she rests on his erection. He hisses as she strokes him, and he can’t stop the near-yelp of pleasure that escapes him.

“Are you sure?” he asks, searching her eyes. It occurs to him that he doesn’t know whether she’s a virgin or not. Chantry beliefs on purity and virginity are likely far removed from any Dalish tradition, so she very well might not be a virgin and carry that without shame. He himself is sometimes troubled by his forays into debauchery as a younger man, but it hardly matters now. All those women before don’t hold a candle to Dalinev.

She nods. “Yes. I want this. I want _you_ ,” she repeats, unmistakable desire in her eyes. He kisses her then, hard, and pulls her chest flush against his. Blackwall wants to cry, she’s so sweet. Slowly, his hand joins hers and together they guide him to her opening.

Blackwall hisses again. It’s been a long, long time, and he’s never made love to someone he truly cares about. He wonders how long he can possibly last with her gazing at him so hungrily like that, breath ragged and hair wild against his pillow.

He goes slow. Dalinev isn’t too tight, even despite her stature and his size, which is good. He wants her as relaxed and aroused as possible. Yet still, he takes things slow. He wants to savor every moment.

Apparently, Dalinev has other ideas.

“Oh, please, Blackwall,” she pants, fingernails scraping at the skin of his back. “Now, please.”

Blackwall chuckles and kisses her. “What’s the rush, my love?” he says, even as he obliges her and slides himself down to the hilt.

Dalinev cries out, then looks at him. Her thin hands cup his cheeks. “I love you,” she whispers. She closes her eyes, bracing herself for rejection. Blackwall tries to stop his heart from falling.

“I love you,” he replies firmly, stroking her cheek.

She opens her eyes again and a tear slips down her cheek, but she’s smiling. “Make love to me, Blackwall."

He does. With every movement, every thrust and kiss and sigh, he feels his love for her swell in his heart. Her moans are almost musical, the sweetest sound Blackwall has ever heard in his life, and when she unravels beneath him it nearly sends him over the edge. He can’t stop now, though. This needs to be the best she’s ever had, the best either of them have, because he’ll be gone by morning.

Dalinev orgasms three more times that night before she and Blackwall fall back onto the hay mattress in a tangle of sweaty limbs. He marvels at how slick and lovely her skin looks in the moonlight. If he were a younger man, he might go in for another round. As it stands, he’s much too tired to do anything but look at her.

How can he do this? How can he face his own death, break her heart by leaving her here after tonight? Blackwall strokes her hair softly and she drifts to sleep. He can because he has to. It’s that or let an innocent man die in his place, and enough innocent people have been harmed by this lie already. It’s time to lay it all to rest. As far as Blackwall is concerned, maybe he should die. Maybe he deserves it for all the lies, for stealing a man’s name, for pretending to be someone better than he is.

She snores when she sleeps. It’s quiet, and Blackwall chuckles before he starts to cry. He kisses her forehead, kits up quietly, and mounts his charger headed for Val Royeaux.

Maker, forgive him. Forgive him for it all.


End file.
